


Stuck on replay

by MolestingMusic



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Heartbreak, M/M, No Smut, Panic Attacks, Sad Ending, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:53:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8586400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MolestingMusic/pseuds/MolestingMusic
Summary: And then I realized that you died a long time ago.





	

I can see your breath as you exhale, a grey film over the rest of the world, distorting the perception of anyone who looks through it. My perception is already distorted, so I’m not sure what it does to me.

My fingers are cold.

“Sorry that we have to walk.” You mumble. I nod, shoving my trembling hands into my pockets. I hate that I can’t tell if they’re shaking from the cold or because you’re standing so close to me.

“Y’know there’s a party downtown tonight?” you ask, bumping my shoulder with yours. I’m staring at my feet as you try to wave down another taxi.

“Mmm?” I mumble, trying to act nonchalant. I hope it’s working.

“Yeah. I heard it’s supposed to be really big. We could stop by, if you want?” You say, voice hopeful. I nod, still gazing at my feet as we continue to walk down the dirty sidewalk; prostitutes and dealers litter the streets, standing under street lights, leaning into cars. I feel sorry for them; they can shake their ass, or flaunt their plastic baggies, but I don’t think they’ll ever be happy.

They’ll die of aids at a young age, or get shot because they fucked someone over, then they’ll just be another anonymous dead body buried under trash, lost in the back alleys of Vegas.

“So… d’you wanna’ go?” you ask, bumping our shoulders again. I finally look away from my feet, at your face, haloed by the lights of the passing cars, and I think it’s appropriate.

“Sure.” I say after a moment of silence. You smile a little, and look back out to the street, trying to wave down another taxi, but they pass us by again. You frown, brow furrowed together, looking back at me. “How about we just take the train?”

\--

I look in the mirror, dark circles under my eyes, hair mussed and sticking out in fifty different directions. I think you’d say I look cute like this, I say I just need a shower.

“Well, Brendon,” I say to my reflection, “today is the first day of the rest of your life. You think you’re ready for it?” When I don’t get a response from the mirrored image, I nod with what looks like determination and walk over to my shower, stripping myself of my clothes and climbing in.

It’s the same routine as always. I have a routine for showering.

Climb in, turn on bottom faucet, wait for the water to get hot enough, turn on shower head, wash hair, wash arms, wash neck, wash face, wash chest, wash back, etc. etc.

The routine is boring, but it’s safe. It may be a little weird that a routine for showering is comforting, but it is. I don’t really know why, but it’s something that’s reassuring. Like, at least I can shower the same, even if everything else is changing.

I turn the shower off, climb out, grab a towel, and walk out to the living room. Everything is in an exact spot, assigned just for that object; the grey blue-walls are calming as the rays of white sun shine through the translucent white curtains. When I was decoration the room I was trying to make it airy. Now it’s just dull.

I walk out the front door, towel still sitting loosely on my hips as I go to pick up the newspaper at the end of the driveway. I can’t remember when I started reading the paper.

As I’m walking back to the door a pigeon starts yelling at me. He’s saying that I look ridiculous, walking outside, only wearing a towel, dripping hair, pink cheeks, sunken eyes.

I tell him to fuck off.

I’m grumbling to myself as I trudge through the house, to the kitchen, setting the paper down to pour myself a cup of coffee.

I walk over to the table that stands tall and proud in the middle of the kitchen. Setting down my coffee and sinking into the hard, wooden chair. I open the paper, skimming over a few headlines.

I sit for a few seconds, just staring at the paper, not bothering to read. My eyes begin to water, and I start to cry, loud and hysterical, until my head falls and rests on the cold wooden surface.

I mumble to the table, lips brushing the surface, telling it how much I hate my life.

\--

Your fingers are grazing my cheeks, tongue hot and heavy on my own, breathing loud, and we sound just as dysfunctional as we really are.

“Bren,” you mumble, too loud for the quiet room. I shake my head, eyes close tight, trying to block out everything I know you’re going to say. “Bren,” you said again, more force behind it this time.

I shake my head again, feeling the tears prick behind my eyes. Not now. Not now.

I continue to shake my head, my brain rattling in my skull, and I can hear it bounce off the walls. I’m shaking, trembling, crying as you grab my face, and pull me close to you, and kiss my hair, and I can’t’ breathe.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper, close to my ear. My eyes are still squeezed tight as I shove my face into your neck.

“Don’t leave, Ryan,” I mumble, tears soaking the hem of your shirt. “don’t ever leave me.”

Your arms are pulling tighter, and I can’t breathe anymore, I’m not sure if it’s because I’m choking on tears, or because you’re holding on so tight, but I know it feels safe.

It feels routine.

\--

I watch you make another fleeting trip to the bathroom. “I have to piss.” You mumbled before you got up, leaving me in the dark room.

You think I don’t know what you do in there, but it’s something I know all. Too. Well.

You come back a few minutes later, minty breath, and I frown, because I know why.

But I’m going to get you to tell me yourself.

You lean foreword and kiss me and I smile into your lips. I’m an excellent liar.

“Why’d you brush your teeth?” I mumble into your mouth. You pull your head back, frown tight in place.

“Am I not allowed to?”

I frown, bringing my eyebrows together. “I didn’t say that. I just asked why.”

You huff and lay back, closing your lids. They look heavy. “I’m going to bed.” You mumble, sounding angry. I nod, laying back next you.

My stomach is pressed to your back as I entwine our legs, draping my arm of your too-thin waist. I press my lips to the knob at the bottom of your neck and close my eyes.

“I’m sorry.” I whisper into the warm skin.

\--

Our knees are bumping on the train after that party downtown. We’re going back to my place. We always go back to my place. It’s another routine.

You’re leaning on my shoulder, sobriety having been eliminated hours ago, and we’re mumbling caring words to each other through slurring tongues and fumbling lips.

“Gorgeous,” I whisper into the corner of your mouth. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, Ryan.” I say, dragging my teeth across your bottom lip. “I don’t know why you do it to yourself.”

You shake your head, kissing me with a quick press of lips. “Dunno what you’re talking about,” you mumble into my mouth, “When’s our stop?” you ask quickly after, trying to change the subject. I shake my head and laugh a little, now’s not the time, I tell myself. I’ll bring it up when we’re a little less high and a little more in private.

Your eyes flutter shut as you yawn, pulling your mouth away and leaning into my side.

“Ryan,” I whisper, closing my own eyes, “we have to stay awake. We could miss our stop.” I yawn as I begin to drift off to sleep.

The train station has to wake us up once we’ve reached the last stop.

\--

You’re looking at me like you’re so angry, and I just want to help.

“You need to stop, Ryan. You’re making yourself sick.” I say quietly, trying to give you the softest eyes I can. You shake your head rapidly, frowning.

“I need to stop, Brendon? Look at yourself! You hate your life. You hate your life and I’m the one that needs to stop? That’s laughable.” You scoff, and yeah, that one cut deep.

I can feel the tears stinging my eyes as I swallow a sob and look down at my trembling hands.

“We both need to stop,” I choke out, watching my feet. “We’re killing ourselves, Ryan.” I whisper. You shake your head again.

“I’m not doing shit, Brendon. You’re the only one who’s killing himself here, not me. I’m young, I’m happy, and I’m living my life.” You bite at me, eyes hard. I bite my lip hard, afraid soon I’ll break the skin, squeezing my eyes shut so tight all I can see is colors and random shapes painting themselves on the black of my brain.

“You’re just as unhappy as I am, Ryan.” I whisper, squeezing my hands together, because maybe that will help me be stronger. “You look like shit.” I say bluntly, not knowing how you’ll react. I don’t wait for a response before I continue. “You look sick. You’re not thin, you're gangly. You look like you’ve slept even less than I have.” I say, forcing the words out of my throat, not bothering to look at you.

“You’re such a fuck up, you know that?” you hiss, I look up to see your shocked eyes, face distorted to look appalled. You’re appalled with me. “You tell everyone what they need to fix about themselves, but you just let yourself hate your life. You tell me that I need to fix myself, when I know damn well you’ve considered hanging yourself with your fucking guitar strap. I bet you think everyone else would think it’s ironic; the musician kills himself with the thing that tied him to his music, how fucking artistic.”

I don’t bother holding the tears anymore, letting them slither hotly down my cheeks. I look back down at my feet again, barely able to whisper “I don’t know how to stop.” My voice is raspy, and my stomach is flipping, and I really hate you right now, even though I know I could never hate you.

“You better figure it out, Brendon.” You shout. “Because you hating your life is fucking us up. You really wanna’ fuck all of this up, Brendon? Everything we have? You’re going to ruin it for us if you don’t quit this shit.”

And I can’t breathe. I start to gasp, in and out, too deep to be healthy. I’m hyperventilating, and falling onto my knees, and you’re watching me with wide eyes, looking scared.

“Bren?” you ask. And I scoff at you internally, because we’re back to nicknames? You kneel next to me, resting a hand on my back as I’m sobbing and breathing deep, and choking on tears, and my runny nose, and I can’t see, and I can barely hear because of my loud, frantic breathing. “Bren, are you okay?”

“Get out.” I cry, doing my best not to pass out. “Get the fuck out.” I hiss, still hyperventilating. You look at me with sad eyes, and I begin to shout, screaming at you to leave, still breathing deep, tears making it hard to see.

I hear the door slam shut before everything goes dark.

\--

I look at myself in the mirror, looking tired as ever. I don’t bother speaking this time. Just take off my clothes and step inside the shower.

I go through the routine before stepping out and wrapping a towel around my waist.

I ignored the dull airiness of the living room and walk out the front door to get the paper.

The pigeon is out there, as always, tormenting me with his words. “It’s all your fault, all your fault, all your fault.”

I ignore him this time, as I have the past few times, and go back into the house, and to the kitchen to get my coffee.

I skim a few headlines on the paper before sighing and setting it down on the table.

I get to my feet, drop my towel, and walk to my room. I’ll pick it up later.

My room is a mess of colorful clothes that haven’t been worn in a while. I’ve gotten into the habit of lying naked in bed, staring at the ceiling.

But today I’ve noticed that my cupboards are bare, and I might need food eventually, even though I’ve lost my appetite as of two and a half months ago.

So I pull on too-loose pants that used to be too tight, and a too-baggy t-shirt that used to be too fitting. I slip on shoes that still fit comfortable, even though it feels awkward to have them on, and I walk out the door.

Because driving is too much to ask of me when I’m in this sort of state, I choose to walk the five minutes to the grocery store.

I don’t think about anything except the bit of dirt on my shoes, wondering where it came from and how long it’s been there, when suddenly I find myself walking through a large pair of automatic doors.

I go straight to the vegetable aisle, and stare at a few heads of lettuce. I don’t exactly know what I’m looking for, until I look up and see you.

You look terrible.

You’re thinner than I could ever think possible, and your face is all bones, and I realize how much I hate you.

Anger is bubbling in my throat in the form of acidic bile; I can’t believe you. Almost three months, and you didn’t listen to a word I said.

I drop the lettuce, not noticing if it falls back into place or to the floor, and I march up to you, fury burning in my chest.

Or maybe that’s worry.

“Fuck you,” I spit as I approach you. You look up at me, and your eyes are wide, but dull and lifeless. “Two and a half months!” I shout, “Two and a half months I’m killing myself about how I treated you! I was killing myself over what I said, and what you said, and you didn’t listen to any of it!” I almost scream. You look scared as my volume rises, and I’m glad. I’d been so worried for so long, and it was over nothing.

“You’re so stupid,” I hiss, eyes burning holes into you. “I can’t believe I was so fucking worried-fuck,Ryan,” I say, getting quieter, the butterflies in my stomach coming to life after such a long time. I remember how much I love you as I stare at you and your sunken cheeks. “Fuck, look at you…” I whisper, taking in your small frame. This is what you really look like, and it terrifies me. I can feel tears pricking my eyes for the first time in forever, and I just want to know how I can fix you.

“I’m fine.” You say sternly, or try to, because your voice is weak and raspy, and I’m so scared.

I shake my head, eyes softening. “No, you’re not. You look… like you’re dying.” I say quietly, my voice cracking as I stare at you.

You shake your head, face expressionless. “I’m fine. I’ll see you around, Brendon.” You say as you turn and walk away.

And then I realized that you died a long time ago.


End file.
